Well I suppose the obvious question here is why are we only now uploading a review of the first of seven exhibitions hosted by what appears to be a shabby version of the Freemasons more than a fortnight after it happened. The answer is shut up but also the answer is because our reviewer only just got back from it. He’s foaming at the mouth a little and stinks of ammonia. He had this to say on the subject, in one, long, garbled, frantic rant which, can I just say, I didn’t even ask for;
“This is my review of BRITISH ART SHOW 7! British Art Show 7 is a big deal. Really though, art is a very complex series of interactions with your mother, the more important of which take place long, long after she’s been buried, or cremated, or cast away to sea, or fired from a cannon into the gaping, gawping mother-over-mother. Unfortunately, this is a fact that many are unwilling to admit, but this actually works out in the British Art Show 7’s favour, at least in terms of the artist’s personal enjoyment. ‘Alan Davie’ was positively suffocating with laughter the entire evening, paralysed by the 5000+ attendees staggering ignorance of the elephant in the room. And my oh my is it an angry elephant! Massive and white and fluent in several mainland continental dialects. I’ve got nothing. I think the real reason we’re all here is none of us spent enough time mastering photoshop or whatever and so we show up to faux-watercolour-competitions, this-and-my-staunch-refusal-to ‘get on the ladder’ at an early age. I really wanted to talk this over with my real dad ‘Alan Davie’ but I was repeatedly warned not to, and having already upset a table I felt it best not to antagonise the punters further. My girlfriend disagreed. My girlfriend is lovely and right about most things. Fuck everyone.”
WHAT IS IT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT YOU CRETINOUS MANIAC. ENOUGH.